He sat upon the wall observing the dialectics of people passing him, on their way home, just to go out. He wanted to shout. Was it envy because all he faced when he got home was the cat (of whom he loved so much) and organic cheese? A feeling of desolation comes over him as he boarded the tram on his way home. At this time human contact, people invading his zone (speak for space) was what he faced as he lived on the line where park and ride was in use, he had wanted for so long now to be alone.

He placed Sonic Youth (daydream nation) into his CD Walkman, the Sony headphones were his ears. The music pumped into his mind as he sat there wondering about nothing but everything at the same time, his mind was on fire.

He left four stops before his, as he wanted a short walk along the River Don. There were warm winters sunshine as he crossed, walked through Attercliffe and through the old graveyard. Here he sat for at least four songs. This was how he measured time. When he moved on "providence" had kicked into play on the Sonic Youth CD he was playing. He reached the River Don and walked towards home. Although he felt desolation, he was enjoying the moment and thinking of how the packed tram would become desolated, much like his life at stages of his journey.

He had a desire to spend time in silence for a period of six months, not speaking or participating in the rat race of humanity. This desire had been with him for years and had increased more over time. Conversations had become fractured often-becoming arguments, where he felt he was being misrepresented and not understood to say the least. He only becomes placid when smoking weed, although to pay for this he had to use his rent. Of course, he could use crime to raise the dosh but his last time in prison where he had seen a youth killed and another have his throat slashed was a deterrent from going down this road. He realised how shit worked and what people thought of him. How his past was his omnipresent mother fucker. In his mind, he had an a-r-gument (justification) for his actions. However, he could not manage to place them into any context with those who had offered to help him through his darkest hours.

His mind was distracted back to his walk as the CD played the track: hyperstation, and he reached the vast complex of the shopping complex. Should he? continue his walk past the manicured grass at the side of the complex, which looked over the river down to Salt and Pepper - two redundant cooling towers, across the wasteland and then home. He had nothing much to get home for so he opted for the wasteland way home. His thoughts went back to the previous conversation he was having in his head. He crossed under the footbridge and down the short road down towards the wasteland. Now he had changed the CD to Roots Manuva (dub come save me) as he continued his walk home. He loved the way Mother earth had taken back what man had just left. Perhaps the desolation he felt was the same as the desolation here.

All his life he been forced and told that being with people was the right thing to do. He was different and he knew this. How could he explain this? What was normal, what was real? Fuck, he had been fucked up. Where could he find the explanation to all his thoughts? If he talked them through with people would they think him insane, was it normal to fear Christmas in September. The only Christmas he had liked was when he was fucking a female. She was good for him, but for her it was just sex. Again, he had been abused in a sexual way. Since then Christmas had been fucked up. The last one spent in a cold empty squat of a tower block where he had hoped to share it with someone, instead he was alone. All year there had been an omnipresent thought in his mind about Christmas and now it had returned. The vast shopping complex was the only place he could go shopping for his weekly food. Already the stores were getting ready for Christmas. All these useless products being sold to people to give to people to say they loved them. Why the fucks do we to express our love in such ways, he thought.

He reached home, removed his hooded top and CD Walkman, placed them in the homes he had created for them in his space people call home however, this was not home, just another stopping place. He had lived in 22 places. Some he had made an effort to make home. However here he had placed his effects he had collected over time. While at the Squat much of the very little he had owned had been nicked. All he had now had been replaced from The Vicarage he had moved into when evicted from the tower block. He had been given a community care grant and had bought himself some other bits such as bedding and a proper Hi-fi of separates and spent the rest paying off his dealer for his drugs and self printed propaganda.

He got home about 7.30 and watched Coronation Street. He was only half into what he was watching, another weekend loomed. He disliked Saturdays and even more so over the years.

They were cold and desolated. In the last week his sleep had been little as he had awoken in cold sweats and fear pumping through his body. Although he was tired it took him over 3 hours to fall into a deep sleep. Even then, he woke at four in the morning. His mind was on fire. Fuck, this was crazy shit he thought. At least he had something to look forward to this weekend - a long walk on Sunday.

He pottered about his home, he had seen News 24 at the weekend and realised his mind simply could not cope with this. So by 6am he was out his door walking up to Blackburn Meadows, a nature reserve along the canal. It was a cold September morning and daylight was just wakening in the south, for some reason he never left home without his CD player in the front pocket of his hooded top. He had chosen Leftfield (rhythm and stealth) the tunes and cold kicked his mind into play. He walked up his road and then across the wasteland, on to the canal. His mind was on fire, rhymes were sang along to the tunes AGAINST THE GRAIN HE SHALL REMAIN
he sang along changing the words to fit into his perspective of life.

His walk became a little dance for a while, shit he thought it was good to be alive. He knew this to be a contradiction as most of the time he simply wished he could end his life. For over a year now such thoughts had been running round his head. He had debated with himself the rights and wrongs of doing such an act. He had spoken to friends who simply for there own reasons did not hear his cries for help (well at least that's what he thought). In his mind he wanted to come to peace with them so when he did kill himself he could move on in peace, or were his friends simply too scared to talk them through.

He very much wanted to end his, life for him it had become pointless consumption and a repeat of the same shit. There had been no progress moving on, far too many people had their thoughts set against him and though there was some people who told him different he could not trust them, what was their agenda? Why did they wish to help? He had trusted and opened up before only to be abused, let down and exploited and finding himself in the same place.

He so wanted the same opportunities as every one else, and does his own shit. He so wanted to spend time alone not speaking, going for long walks, smoking his weed, playing his music, and taking photographs - all he considered normal. In his mind was a raging fight how could he do this. He knows he had to pay his rent. However paying his rent meant going without. He simply could not cope with life when not stoned: he looked for arguments to give him some feeling, something to do. He realised this and understood the dialectics of what shit he was up to. He could work out shit for himself, there was no need for him to hear this from other people and when they told him he began to hate himself more.